Finding Love in Mississippi
by keepcalmsmile
Summary: Dean getting home from a hunt early was supposed to be a GOOD surprise for his fifteen-year-old brother. Instead, he finds Sam just about to get serious . . . with another guy. Sam refuses to talk about it, John can't find out, and Dean has no idea what the hell is going on.
1. Finding a Unicorn

It was supposed to be a good surprise. For the first time in…ever…he and Dad actually got home from a hunt _early_. The supposed werewolf had actually been a raging psychopath…even more disturbing, but much easier to take put down.

Dad had dropped Dean off at the motel while he went to pick up some celebratory beer ("because if you can hunt like a man you can celebrate like one"). Dean had sauntered into the room, expecting to find his brother bent over some nerdy textbook. Sam would look up, a brief flicker of pleasant surprise crossing his face before he covered it up with some smart-ass comment that was as close to an "I'm glad you're here," as either of them was ever comfortable giving.

He was _not_ expecting to find his brother—his _shirtless_ brother—jumping off one of the beds the moment Dean cracked the door open and shouting, "What the hell are you doing here!" while someone else—also shirtless—literally pulled the blankets over their head.

Assuming this person had been some chic from one of Sam's geek classes, this would definitely have been the crowning achievement of Dean's life, providing fodder for an inexhaustible supply of jokes.

The thing was, Dean was certain the person cowering under the blankets didn't have boobs.

"What the hell, Dean!" Sam roared again, trying to sound pissed, but the panic in his voice, in his eyes…everywhere, really, easily overpowered whatever actual anger there might have been.

Now that he thought about it, Dean could feel bile rising in his throat, though he couldn't really say where it came from: disgust or surprise or that same panic he could see reflected in Sam's orb-like eyes.

 _Take control!_ John barked, thankfully from only inside Dean's head.

Dean cleared his throat. "I think it's time for you to go," he growled, directing his gaze to the trembling figure under the blankets. The guy darted out from under the blanket, grabbing a pair of sneakers and a t-shirt at random (Dean was pretty sure the t-shirt was Sam's, but no one was going to say anything about it at that point) and bolting out of the room without glancing at either of them. Sam's eyes never left the guy, following his rapid escape and staring at the doorway after he had vanished from sight, his eyes far away and…wistful.

What the actual hell?

Dean glanced around at the tousled bed, at the guy's t-shirt on the floor, then back up at Sam, whose gaze had now shifted determinedly to the floor, "Surprise," Dean smiled weakly.

"Shut up, Dean!" Sam snarled with a special type of savagery that he usually saved exclusively for Dad. He grabbed the second t-shirt and started storming towards the door, not going after his…friend…Dean was sure, but Sam's first instinct when he was upset was always to get out.

"Hold up, dude," Dean said, grabbing Sam's arm before the kid could reach the doorknob.

"I swear, Dean, if you don't let me go…"

Sam's eyes were still fastened to the floor, and he was trembling under Dean's grip.

If Sam walked out that door, Dean could think of about a dozen ways this whole thing could go spectacularly to hell.

"Look, I just want to talk," he said, switching to his keep-victims-calm-to-get-information-quickly voice, "That's it; I just want to know what's going on."

"I think that's pretty damn obvious, don't you?" Sam spat.

"Not really," Dean said, "Cause it looks to me that you and your…friend were in the middle of having a nice moment, then I stomped in and ruined it."

Sam didn't say anything, didn't even move, just trembled more violently under Dean's grip. It was answer enough.

Dean took a deep breath, "See what I can't figure is why any of that's reason for you to get jumpy and defensive like this. The way I see it, the bad's on me for for not checking to see if you were busy before barging in here. You're a fifteen-year-old with a hotel room all to himself for a week, what should I have been expecting?

"Boobs," Sam mumbled to the ground.

Dean started to chuckle, then thought better of it, "Maybe," he admitted, "But the protocol should be the same, don't you think?"

"So you're not…" Sam lifted his eyes but, for perhaps the first time in his life, Sam couldn't seem to be able to find the words he wanted, so he returned his attention to the carpet.

"Mad? No. I have to admit you threw me…more than a little…and I'm still not exactly sure what's going on…but I don't see any reason to get mad over that."

"So you don't think I'm a freak,"

The words were rushed and mumbled and enough to make Dean want to bash his head against something. For as long as Sam had been…Sam…he'd had this normalcy complex, this desperate desire to be like everyone else, even if he was more certain than anyone that he could never have it.

Dean just wished he'd stop trying so damn hard.

"Freaks come with body counts, Sam. Now go put a shirt on, Dad'll be back any minute."

For once, Sam obeyed without arguing.

Sam opted for a full-on shower instead of a quick clothes change, which, frankly, was fine with Dean. He took the few minutes of solitude to remake the messed-up bed, his hands moving with the effortless, military precision Dad had ingrained in him as he wrestled with this new information like a particularly vicious sparring match.

Fact 1: Sammy is not actually a prude. Dean had teased him about his modesty since the kid was like, ten, but he was pretty damn sure that Sam was _on top of_ that dude.

Fact 2: Sammy apparently digs dudes. Dean had heard of it, of course, guys going for guys, but frankly, he hadn't ever really cared enough to think about it. He supposed, an hour ago, if he had been asked to give any sort of opinion on the subject he would have said that he didn't give a rat's ass about whether or not a couple of hippy dudes felt extra kinky and decide to go at it with each other.

Fact 3: Sammy wasn't kinky; he was a downright romantic, all about the connection of the heart _and_ the body. Dean had figured the kid hadn't gotten laid yet because he hated the idea of a one-night stand, and they were never anywhere long enough to allow for much else.

Fact 4: If Sam was going for it with this guy, it was because he _felt_ something for the dude.

How Sam could even begin to feel like that for a dude was completely beyond Dean's comprehension, but there it was.

The door slammed open and shut. Dean didn't even bother looking up, because only his Dad could make a door slam _open._

"You still playing nursemaid for your brother?" Dad drawled, sounding only mildly belligerent, which meant he didn't actually care.

"Sammy and I were wrestling," Dean lied easily.

Dad made a noise in the back of his throat that indicated that he heard but was too tired to care. Dean heard the distinctive pop and hiss of a beer bottle being opened and Dad's unmistakable sigh as he sank into the uncomfortable motel chair. This was as relaxed as Dad got: drinking a beer after a hunt, and Dean suddenly remembered that he had taken to joining him, sitting in companionable silence and basking in the lingering adrenaline rush that accompanied a good hunt.

Dean doubted he'd be able to fall into their comfortable routine, but he definitely wanted the beer, so he threw himself into the chair opposite Dad and opened one of the bottles.

"Doesn't feel as good as it usually does, does it?" John drawled.

Dean nodded, though he had frankly nearly forgotten about the screwed-up psychopath they had just hog-tied and dropped in front of the police station, "People are crazy," he said, and took another gulp of beer.

Dad made a small noise of assent, and they fell into silence. Dean finished his beer and grabbed another, Dad frowned at him but didn't say anything, and Dean found he couldn't really care about wasting his liver before he was thirty.

He had almost reached the dregs of the second bottle when Sam finally emerged from the bathroom, shaking his floppy hair like a shaggy dog and dressed in—Dean cursed silently—jeans and a striped t-shirt that definitely did not belong to him.

The kid was freakin' pining.

Sam didn't acknowledge either of them, simply dug in his bag for one of his mammoth textbooks and sat on the bed, pulling his legs up, resting the book on his knees, burying his face in its pages, and clearly doing his best to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible.

This was wrong.

Sam's go-to defense, whether he was angry, scared, or upset, was to fight or run-away. His constant head-butting with Dad proved that. What Sam was doing now seemed an awful lot like surrender, but _surrender_ wasn't a word in Sam Winchester's vocabulary.

Dean's stomach lurched painfully, threatening to eject the beer he'd just drunk.

Fact 5: Sammy had decided that Dad _and Dean_ would never accept him. He was so sure, he didn't even try to fight.

Well . . . shit.

"So what's his name?"

Dean actually went and picked up Sam from school the day after … _that_ happened, despite his brother's furious objections to that plan. Since this was the first time Dean had offered to do such a thing in months, he was well aware his ploy was a bit obvious. That being said, Sam always loved to talk about his feelings, and talking crap like this out was better in the Impala, so Dean figured some soul-bearing from Sam, some casual acceptance (and totally not freaking out) from him, and they'd be good.

They'd be even better if Dad found a hunt in Montana or something in the next couple days and they could put this whole mess literally in the rearview mirror.

Sam, however, seemed to have different ideas.

"His name's Screw You," he snapped.

"More like Screw _You_ ," Dean quipped, and _shit_ that was the stupidest thing he could have possibly said. He glanced at Sam, and the kid didn't even curse him out, just scooted over to the other end of the Impala until he was practically sitting on the window.

He didn't meet Dean's eyes for the rest of the day.

"The hell's wrong with him?" Dad asked when Sam actually started cleaning the weapons without being ordered.

Dean shrugged, "Just some school drama, I guess."

"Hmm," Dad shrugged and returned his attention to his journal.

Dean wasn't sure how to feel about that.

The middle-aged librarian scowled harder at his request for books on homosexuality than if he had asked for how-to occult manuals (he knew this from experience).

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised at the pointed _lack_ of useful reading materials in a small town library in rural Mississippi. The crap he did find was mostly pseudo-scientific garbage and recommendations to appeal to God for healing. He stopped reading when some of the crap started to sound eerily like exorcisms.

It didn't occur to him until a couple days later that when Sam demanded, "Just a couple hours to be a normal human being with normal friends!" every Saturday, he was probably mostly referring to _one_ friend.

Fortunately, there were only so many places for high schoolers to go in towns like this, so it took Dean barely twenty minutes to track Sam down in the local diner.

Sam _hated_ diners on principle.

He didn't seem to mind this one though, not the way he was laughing at something the guy across from him at the table had just said.

They weren't stupid enough (or bold enough or safe enough) to actually touch each other. Dean, however, was an expert on all things Sam Winchester (except for having no idea about … this) and his big, goofy grins, his barely untouched food, the way he leaned across the table to catch his (friend's?) every word. The kid was enamored.

The (boyfriend?) seemed nice enough. He had an average height and build with a wide face and large chocolate-brown eyes. He wasn't quite as tall as Sam, and Dean chuckled when he realized Sam was hunching down in his booth a little more than usual so he could meet the kid's eyes.

The kid was also staring at Sam like he glowed.

Dean still wasn't sure what this was, but he was well on his way to sleeping with a girl in every state in the continental US, and he had never looked at any of them like that.

The next day, Dad found signs of demon activity just outside Montgomery. "I'm going to meet up with Caleb," he said as he packed his duffle. "You and Sam take care of that Hoodoo stuff Sam found a couple miles south of here."

"Dad that's low level crap," Dean protested, "Let me come. Sam can handle the Hoodoo."

"No Dean."

That was that.

The Hoodoo was a bust, so Dean ended up scoring a part-time job at the local mechanic shop. Sam seemed content attending his genius classes for more than a month and spending more and more time with his "friends." After tip-toeing around Dad and Dean until Dad left again, Sam had apparently decided that Dean wasn't going to run him out or burn him at the stake or whatever other nightmares his overactive imagination had come up with, so he finally started to meet Dean's eyes again. It wasn't the same. Sam was agreeable but withdrawn, as if they hadn't spent the past fourteen years comfortably driving each other insane.

At this point, Dean didn't really care if Sam was sleeping with every gay kid from here to San Francisco as long as he just talked to him again.

Dean spent an agonizing week listening to pop stations whenever Sam was in the car. Finally, during a totally superfluous food run, Madonna came blaring on.

"Gotta love her, right?" Dean risked shooting Sam a quick smile.

Sam stared at him like he had grown an extra limb.

He waited another day or so before trying again.

"Maybe when Dad gets back we can try to find a hunt in California…that'd be awesome right?"

"Mmm," Sam said without bothering to look up from his history textbook.

"We've never lived in California," Dean said, "I bet it's awesome."

"Meaning there's lots of beach bimbos."

"Hell yea," Dean said, even though he was specifically not going to mention that, but he remembered Sam calling him from Oregon and asking him how to talk to girls. Then there was the way he blushed when Dean teased him about his "totally obvious crush" on Becca Allsworth across the street less than six months ago. Had he just misinterpreted everything since the kid hit puberty?

Whatever this was, Dean hadn't caught Sam in bed with Becca Allsworth.

"Bet we could find some awesome jobs around San Francisco," he said, "Big city, all those miners, gotta be some restless spirts at least. Then we could check out Alcatraz and the Golden Gate and stuff our faces with sourdough bread. What d'ya think?"

Sam grunted.

"Come on Sammy. Beaches, pretty houses on huge-ass hills, sourdough . . ." Gay people. "What's not to love?"

"Maybe," Sam said icily, "I'd love to finish a semester at the same school I started it."

Well . . . crap. He screwed up again. Sam obviously wouldn't care about the gay Mecca as much as this gay kid. Because he was a bleeding heart romantic like that.

"You never know," he said finally, "Maybe we will."

"Riigght," Sam slammed his history book shut and pulled another textbook to him.

Sighing, Dean flipped on the television and flicked through the stations until finally settling on a rerun of Back to the Future. It was lame, but it was lame enough to not distract Sam much.

So you know, maybe he could do one thing right.

They didn't say anything for the rest of the evening, but every once in a while, Sam would look up at his homework and open his mouth to say something before apparently changing his mind and returning his attention to his books.

Maybe they'd managed to make some progress after all.

The dirty marqui in front of Southern Valley High announced "Valentine's Dance Feb 13 Tickets $15." Dad was going to be back in a little over a week, and Dean expected they'd be gone 48 hours after that.

Sam got home late nearly every night and politely cut Dean out of every part of his life.

It was a gamble, but this impasse was . . . empty.

You going to that dance?" Dean asked as they pulled away from the school.

Sam narrowed his eyes, "What's the point?"

There were lots of ways to take that. There were lots of ways to take most things Sam said. Dean pointedly did not think about what Sam meant by it, though, because he knew it would make his chest hurt. Instead, Dean clenched his hands on the steering real and pointedly did not think of the million ways this scheme could make things exponentially worse.

"Dean. Where the hell are we going?" Sam asked the second they turned left instead of right to the motel they'd been living in for the past two and half months (which was probably some type of record for them).

"Need some new boots," Dean said, because boots were the only purchase that justified going to a mall.

"And I'm going because…"

"Because." Dean grinned at Sam's resigned scowl.

The mall was predictably empty on a Tuesday afternoon as Dean led them into Dillards. Sam trailed sullenly after him as they passed rows of dresses and handbags.

"Hey! Look what's on sale," Dean swerved down the aisle to the rows of men's dress shirts. A little sign on the top of some of the racks said 15% off.

"Dean," Sam sighed, "Those are still at least twice as much as we spend on any of our clothes."

"We've got a bit more with the mechanic's job. Let's take a look."

"You okay?" Sam raised an eyebrow in that half mocking, half actually concerned way of his.

"What? Is it really so hard to believe a handsome guy like me might want to dress up a little?"

"Dean," Sam sighed, "I know what you're doing."

"What!"

"I know I've been a bit . . . off," Sam said, "But I'm fine, really. You don't need to do any of this," he gestured vaguely at the clothes racks.

"No reason not to, though."

"Dean . . ."

"Look, Sam," Dean rubbed his hand down his face, "I don't know exactly what you're feeling now…"

"That's pretty damn obvious," Sam scowled and looked away.

"Not just because of who you're with," Dean interjected, "Dude, you know me. Different bar, different girl every night. I don't do the whole relationship thing."

"That's not . . .we're not. . ."

"Sam, it's okay. I know I flipped out on you before, but that's on me, not you. You really like this kid, so you know what we're going to do? We're going to pick you out a nice shirt and some pants, you're going to ask this guy to go to the Valentine's dance, and you're going to be cheesy and romantic and love every minute about it, alright?"

"There's no way we could go to the dance, Dean."

"Only lame-ohs actually take their dates _to_ the dance," Dean rolled his eyes, "Trust me."

Sam looked away, and Dean carefully didn't notice him rubbing at his eyes. When Sam turned back, his eyes were red, but he was smiling, "Okay."

"His name's Jayden," Sam said on the way home. He's holding the Dillard's bag carefully on his lap like it might spontaneously combust if he jostled it too much.

Dean risked shooting him a quick glance, "Great guy huh?"

"Yea," and Sam's small, helpless smile was so endearing Dean couldn't help but smile too.

Let it never be said that Dean Winchester couldn't turn the most decrepit hotel room into a romantic paradise. There were candles and fairy lights and a stereo with a bunch of romantic emo crap that Sam loved and a VCR hooked up to the relatively reliable TV prepped with all three Star Wars movies because they were Jaden's favorite (even if Sam let out an exasperated sigh every time Dean watched them).

Sam, unsurprisingly, cleaned up well. He sat in the ratty motel chair tugging nervously at his baby blue button down shirt, and looking around helplessly like he had no idea what he was doing.

"Dude," Dean said when he entered the hotel room, "Stop fussing. You look fine." He set a Boston Market bag, a bottle of sparkling cider, and two plastic wine glasses on the table. Sam had tried—and knew how to get—the good stuff, but every once in a while Dean decided to behave like an adult. He just carefully hadn't look in Sam's bag for the past couple of days.

"You sure about this?" Sam muttered, still fussing with his shirt sleeve.

"Definitely," Dean agreed. He gave his brother another once-over, "Stand up."

Sam obeyed, frowning.

"You're not a choir boy," Dean unbuttoned the first two buttons of Sam's shirt, "Actually you want the opposite effect tonight. He unbuttoned the cuffs Sam had been fiddling with and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. "Much better," he stepped back, "You'll knock him dead."

"Dean . . ."

"Hey," Dean clasped his brother's shoulder, "You'll be great. You'll both be great. You've spent how much time with this kid? You're just making tonight a little special."

"You are," Sam mumbled.

"Nah, I'm just providing the grub. Tonight's all about you," Dean smiled, "And that cheesy emo crap you like."

Sam huffed a little in false indignation, "Maybe if you would listen to anything past 1970."

"Oh hell no!" Dean protested. He checked his watch, "I'd better go. He should be here soon."

"Have a good Valentine's Day."

"You mean unattached drifter's Christmas? Hell yea! Best day of the year! Maybe if I'm lucky enough I'll find _two_ . . ."

"Ew! Shut up you freak!"

Dean went to the door, cackling, "Hey Sam . . ."

" _What."_

Dean snapped a condom at his brother's head like a rubber band.

" _Dean!"_

Dean left, cackling as Sam threw every curse he knew at him.

He waited in the back of the parking lot until Jayden knocked on the door at exactly seven-o-lock, shifting uncomfortably in his own white button-down shirt. The door opened immediately and Sam hurriedly ushered him in.

Right. They didn't have the luxury of prolonged door step hellos.

Dean waited a couple more minutes before pulling out of the parking lot. His chest was clenching with too many emotions to define easily. Sam was the one more suited to all that soul-searching crap.

He spent the night with a girl named Hannah, but even their most creative moments weren't as memorable as Sam's casual, "Hey Jerk," when Dean returned a little after lunch the next day.

"Hey bitch," he yawned, wandered to the mini fridge, and pulled out the leftover Boston Market macaroni.

"This is Jayden," Sam pointed at the kid he was currently propped up against in the bed.

"Hey Jayden," Dean said as he dug into the macaroni without bothering to heat it up first.

"Hey," Jayden said with painfully forced casualness.

"This Empire Strikes Back?" Dean asked needlessly as on the screen Luke carried Yoda like a backpack through the swamp.

Jayden nodded.

"Best one, right?" Dean said as he flopped down on the other bed.

"Hell yea," Jayden agreed.

Sam rolled his eyes, "And you guys call _me_ the geek."

"You like _documentaries_ , Sam," Jayden said.

"So do you!"

"Shark week totally doesn't count…"

They bickered until Luke and Darth Vader's fight scene when Jayden started talking mouthing along to Vader's lines, coming in dramatically at "I am your Father!"

"You're such an idiot."

"That's why you love me," Jayden quipped before suddenly freezing and glancing anxiously at Dean.

He thought about pretending not to hear, but if Jayden was half as angsty about this as Sam, he'd take it all the wrong way, so Dean met his eyes and shrugged deliberately before returning his attention to the screen. Jayden sagged in relief, and Sam settled himself more comfortably against his chest.

Dean popped open the bottle of untouched cider and turned on Return of the Jedi. Sam fell asleep before they'd made it out of Jabba's palace, and Jayden eventually became distracted for a good half hour carding his fingers through Sam's hair before dropping off to sleep too.

Dean finished the cider and the movie and watched his brother sleeping easily against his boyfriend's chest.

For the first time in his life, he desperately hoped Dad didn't find a new job for a long, long time.

It was a fantasy, of course. Dad was back a week later, already talking about a black dog in Michigan and ordering Sam to withdraw himself from school the next day.

The resulting argument shook the foundations of the motel. Dean busied himself tuning the Impala and waited for the storm to pass. Sam knew he would lose, knew this day would come the moment he started seeing that kid. Dean wasn't sure what it meant that Sam fought so hard anyway.

The motel door exploded open and Sam stormed out, ignoring Dad's continued shouts after him. He stormed past Dean, and it wasn't hard to guess who he was going to see.

"Hey!" Dean called after him.

Sam paused, but did not turn to look at him.

"Let me give you a lift there . . . save you a five mile run."

After a moment's consideration, Sam nodded sharply and threw himself into the passenger seat of the Impala. Neither bothered to speak until Dean pulled up to Jayden's shabby apartment complex.

"Play hookie tomorrow," Dean said, "I'll take care of the school stuff and pick you up around noon."

Sam nodded and got out of the car without sparing it or Dean a second glance.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Dean pulled out and returned to his equally irate father.

Dean picked Sam up the next day, an hour after John had left, still muttering about obstinate kids needing to learn to accept the life. He wasn't wrong, really, and maybe that was the worst part of the entire mess.

Sam got in without a word. Jayden was standing at the door of the complex, and Sam craned his neck to look back at him long after he had vanished from sight.

They were two States away before either of them uttered a single word.


	2. Ghouls vs Unicorns

It was another six months before Dean dared bring up the whole gay thing again.

They were in a town about an hour north of Portland, Oregon tracking down a nest of gouls. Sam had bullied him into a freakin' Starbucks, arguing that since he was doing all the actual research, he got to choose where they worked.

"Besides, no one is surprised when people camp out in coffee shops," he finished.

So Dean consigned himself to spending several hours sitting in this stupid coffee shop with his stupid grande coffee because this place was too good for normal sizes. Sam buzzed a little in happiness every time he took a sip of his latte, which tempered his normal I-hate-hunting scowl, so that was something.

"What's that?" Dean demanded, abandoning a newspaper article he was only half-pretending to read.

"What?" Sam asked without looking up.

"This," Dean reached across the table and snatched Sam's napkin, specifically at the numbet scribbled hastily in black sharpie. The writer had even added a couple hearts to the end of the row of digits.

"The barista gave me his phone number," Sam said in a slow, patronizing voice. "You're not the first person to think of that you know."

"Right," Dean glanced up at the barista . . . a high schooler with black skinny jeans and eye liner, "So you gonna call him?"

"Not my type."

"Right," Dean fingered the napkin for a couple seconds, "Speaking of. I've been meaning to ask, and no judgments I promise. . ."

"Yeess," Sam drawled.

"You are gay, right?"

Sam looked up, seeming to consider Dean for a few seconds, "No."

"Oh. . ." Dean blinked stupidly, "So Mississippi was a one-off thing?"

"No," Sam said, returning his attention to the stack of news articles and cemetery maps in front of him.

"Look man," Dean said, "I'm not trying to be a jerk here. I'm just not sure what you're saying."

"What can I say, Dean?" Sam sighed, "I dated Jayden for three months and spent a month after that crushing on a girl in my lit class. Guys and girls turn me on sometimes. My sex life is just as freaky as the rest of my screwed-up existence."

"Woah, no need to get defensive," Dean said, "Like I said, no judgments here. I was just curious."

"Well, now you know. Can we talk about ghouls, please?"

Dean snorted, "Sure. Whatever you say."

"I've been thinking," Dean said as he threaded a sterilized needle and turned to the deep cut oozing blood on Sam's arm.

"That's new," Sam gasped as Dean poured whiskey over the wound.

"Shut up," Dean said mildly, "Hold still."

Sam grimaced as Dean started stitching the wound closed, "So what profound insights occurred to you while a ghoul wacked your head against a gravestone?"

Dean ignored the bitchy tone. "Those ghouls back there, they're freaky monsters, right?"

"Right," Sam narrowed his eyes.

"But compared to some of the other crap we hunt, a bunch of nasty bastards digging up and eating dead bodies isn't that bad. Hell, we've probably desecrated more graves in our lifetimes."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm just saying, we know from experience that things other people might find . . . different, aren't really that big a deal."

Sam frowned, "So you're saying compared to ghouls, my screwy sex drive isn't that freaky?"

"Nah man . . . I'm saying it doesn't even register."

"A vast majority of the world's moral authorities would disagree with you."

"Eh," Dean shrugged dramatically as he reached for the whiskey bottle again, splashing booze on the floor, and maybe (a little) in Sam's hair. "Most of those guys say monsters aren't real, and look how much they know."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Is that why you've kept this from Dad?"

"I haven't told Dad because you don't want me to."

"Right, and he'd take it so well."

"You never know."

Sam snorted, and yea, Dean couldn't blame him.

"Anyway," Dean said, "Just because he's Dad don't mean he's always right."

He finished the last stitch and doused Sam's arm in whiskey again.

Sam hissed in pain, "Wait," he said a little breathlessly, "Are you implying Dad can be wrong?"

"Shut up, bitch." Dean started wrapping a linen bandage around Sam's arm.

"Jerk," Sam retorted.

Dean tied off the bandage and stood, moving over to the sink to wash his brother's blood off his hands.

"Thanks, man," Sam said quietly from behind him.

Dean rolled his eyes, "You know, I should have known. No straight dude could love chick flick moments as much as you do."

Sam lobbed a bar of motel soap at his head.

A month later, Dean poured a bottle of glitter in Sam's bed. Sam retaliated by replacing all of Dean's boxers with lace panties.

So began the most intense prank war of their lives.


End file.
